The one with the product that no longer exists...

I have to be in Zuma by 9am. Mr X needs something picked up. I’m on the road. All 88 miles of a round trip. I've included a picture I took while driving my hire car. Yep. That's the road going to Zuma. The PCH. I just love it. LOVE IT. The ocean all the way. I’m going to pick up something from Malibu. The trouble is this 'thing' doesn't exist anymore. The company's in liquidation... And that's what I find out as I arrive. My first thought? shit.

It’s very hard explaining to someone that certain things don’t exist anymore. So… I’m looking for a solution. That’s the key to being an assistant here. Sure. There’s a problem but find a solution. If they’re reasonable they’ll listen. If they’re not they’re a wanker so fuck ‘em. Mr X is reasonable. But… I still find the whole confrontation aspect scary.

Having to say ‘they don’t have what you want’ or ‘they can’t do what you want them to do’ is not easy. People don’t get it. But such is life. This is what happens here. Everyone’s on the greasy pole and they all have a sense of entitlement. Even me. But… I’m the bottom of the food chain. And that’s so hard to deal with. Still… I have a bit of power.

Mr X also wants a DS Lite for his daughter for Xmas. In a special pink colour. I’ve checked on line. They don’t exist. They were limited edition last year. Now what? I’ve googled. I’ve ebayed. I’ve phoned Japan. Stress. Will she be happy with another colour? I do hope so.

While driving from Malibu to Zuma I'm trying to sort out his phone. I've been on the phone for 40 cocking minutes. And… the upshot. I’m not authorised on his account. I ring up again and pretend to be Mr X. I put on an US accent. I try to be a man. It’s just humiliating. I pretend I'm a man with a cold - I'm shocking. The US accent, the man accent... it's gone horribly wrong for me.

Mr X's writing partner, Mr A, hears me walking around the house pretending to be Mr X. He’s ashamed on my behalf. He’s never heard anything so pathetic in all his years. And… obviously… they still won’t talk to me.

I track Mr X down in the bathroom to get the authorisation. I hate the beaurocracy here. I have the keys to his life. I know everything about him from SS number to passwords (which I’ve set up) but I can’t get phone information. A joke. A fucking joke. By 10.30am this is still going on and I’m ready to stab someone. Anyway… eventually I head back to West Hollywood. Furious. FURIOUS. But I can’t lose it because I’m doing a job for him and he needs his phone working. In the end it’s all about money and payments. There wasn’t even a fault on the line. Another day in Hollywood land. Another person's cock up rather than mine but... this isn't important right now.

Back on the homestead...

Someone’s coming over to Roof’s place to give it the onceover. Is it clean enough? His lease is up on December 31st. I’ve tried to keep it clean. I’ve fallen in love with the place. It feels like home. I feel sorry for his neighbour though. Andrea. When I told him Roof had gone he looked at me as if I’d put a knife through his heart. He wanted Roof’s email, which I refused to give, I said he could give me his. He went off in a huff and I never heard from him again.

Later that day, I head to the police station. I’ve filled in my ‘victims assistance claim’ and I want some answers. No one’s terribly helpful. I’m at the station asking for help. No one really wants to know. Don’t get shot in the Wilshire District. That’s my tip. I wait about half an hour and then, finally, someone comes out. They’re a bit sympathetic. Just a bit. I want to cry but I remember I’ve got to go to Roof’s place to wait for his running machine to turn up. It turns up but they won’t take it downstairs. It’s 480 pounds and they can’t deal with it. I tried cleavage. Nothing. I tried a cash bribe. Nothing. They just left. Shit. I promised Roof I’d take care of it but they just wouldn’t play ball. I feel awful. Damn. Now what? Maybe I am a crap assistant after all?

The one where I get shot...

I had arranged to meet Roof's friend Ruby to move in to Roof's place... And then this happened...

All in all. The fact of the matter is... Backfat saved my life.

Yep. There we go.... Back fat saved my life. For a woman who spends most of her life dieting and going to the gym in an attempt to improve in her appearance, this is a statement that rankles. But, my muffin top saved the day when I was shot in the back with a high-powered air rifle from an unknown sniper assailant, or indeed assailants, while minding my business at 2.15pm in a residential neighbourhood in Los Angeles. The thing is, had I been the usual LA stereotype size zero character, I’d probably be dead. Or paralysed. Or without a kidney at least.

To backtrack, 45 days ago I decided to move to Los Angeles. It’s bleak and cold in England. QPR, my football team is out of administration and can do without my support for a few months, and I needed some sunshine. So, I quit my job at a national newspaper, packed my life into storage, dug up a few of my old scripts and came out to LA for a ‘holiday’ to follow the American dream.
Initially, it was all going so well. After three days in the country (I’ve got dual nationality before someone decides to inform immigration), I started working for an up-and-coming Hollywood director as his ‘bitch’. They like to call it ‘personal assistant’ but I’m realistic. I’m someone’s bitch. I set up meetings, call other ‘bitches’ though they insist on calling themselves ‘assistants’ and make sure his pool heater’s working.

On day four, I met his former assistant for the handover where she gave me the blackberry… It was then I feel felt I’d arrived. Skimming through the contacts I spotted Johnny Depp’s email, I could barely contain my excitement – not that I’d ever use it. A good bitch is a reliable non-stalker bitch.

By the end of the week, his latest film had opened and I got all manner of calls from wannabes who wanted a job on his next project, I sniggered at calling cards, demo reels and head shots with the appropriate amount of disdain. It really was going so well and I began to get into the Hollywood lifestyle. My life resembled an episode of Entourage mixed in with dabs of the Devil Wears Prada. My emails home were filled with tales of the mundane (back to the pool heater or the broken dishwasher) and the exciting (meetings at the Paramount lot). And then? I got shot in the back.

Most of us think we know Los Angeles. Thanks to films, we’ve heard of Crenshaw and South Central and the names conjure up gun fights and drug deals. Places to avoid. ‘Crips’ and ‘Bloods’ are not to be taken lightly. And then there’s West Hollywood. We-ho. The slightly chi-chi part of town, which contains a shopping Mecca – The Grove, the cheaper alternative to Rodeo Drive and paradise for so many. It’s a huge destination in Los Angeles, which is a city is all about arrival.

Having left the Grove, I wandered down to a coffee shop on foot. This was my mistake. No one walks here. Everyone, but everyone, drives. And then… I meandered towards the Palazzo, a residential block of flats, a place filled with wealthy divorcees, wannabes and actors who are new in town. So far? So LA.

I was waiting for a woman to let me into my potential new home just outside the security gates when I noticed something fly past my ear. Someone’s throwing rocks at me. I thought. I moved slightly closer to the security guards themselves and sipped at my tea.

It happened again and the second time, I felt something hit me in the back. It was like a sharp rock at been thrown at me. I put my hand on my back and removed it. It was covered in blood. I’d been shot. I looked around. No one. Nothing. Stunned but not feeling any pain, at this stage, I ran towards the security guards shouting out “I’ve been shot…. I’ve been shot.” Their reaction? Total meltdown. “Was I sure I’d been shot” I lifted up my shirt (black of course, which somewhat spoiled any extra drama of actually seeing a bloodstained shirt) and sure enough, there was a bleeding hole in my flesh.

“Call the police,” I screamed at them while they started asking me mundane questions like asking me my age. I swore. I swore with the total freedom and abandonment of a woman who’s just been shot in the back by a sniper. I swore at them to get the police to me right away. And I swore at them to get me a paramedic. And then I burst into tears.

Randomly, a paramedic was making a visit to the Palazzo so he was flagged over to dispense some advice. He confirmed what we all knew. I’d been shot. But he warned me about getting into an ambulance. It would cost me at least $200 to ‘order’ one. And if the paramedics touched me, or helped me into the ambulance, I would be ‘charged’. It was then I realised that I was in America and I missed the NHS. How the hell was I going to pay for this drama?

I flagged down a car, it was the woman with my new house keys. I’d not met her before but, bleeding profusely, I shuffled into her car and begged her to drive me to the hospital’s ER ward apologising as I seeped into her passenger seat.

I arrived at the hospital, sent her away, and registered. They took my blood pressure. Normal. So I was sent to the holding bay. I then realised I was going to be late to meet my boss so I sent him an email: “Not that I want to freak you out but I've just been shot and I have to go to hospital to have the bullet removed. Will call when out of ER. I'm probably in shock right now.” Probably not my finest hour. Apparently he was in a meeting at a studio and told them all ‘My assistant’s been shot…’. I’m sure it can only have helped his kudos.

I walked around, trying to stem the bleeding before, finally, I was taken into the ER ward. I was in utter agony and trying not to freak out because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. By now it was just a trickle – but a trickle too far. Stemming a few tears, I was approached by the hospital money person, who walked softly carrying a big clipboard. Before I knew it, they were demanding a credit card. I kept saying: “I have no money. Nothing.” They were having none of it. They wanted that credit card. I’ve since found out I could have refused as it’s their duty to treat me. Next time I get shot I’ll know what to do. Refuse to pay. Perhaps be a bit outraged rather than the placid ‘oh, okay’ as I weakly handed over my card. I just wanted to see a doctor at that point so felt slightly emotionally blackmailed into payment.

Back inside the ER, it’s nothing like TV’s ER, which is always filled with sultry looking doctors. Instead, it was chaos. They only had one (albeit charming) doctor on duty that afternoon so I lay there, bleeding and freaking out about money. I was finally examined and sent off to x-ray where they spotted a bullet wedged in my back fat. And not only that, it had travelled around three inches into my back fat and gone down into more fatty flesh, which I would like to term ‘lower back’ but others have said ‘arse’. Or being American: “Ass”. I maintain it was my lower back.

At this point, six x-rays later, my costs were spiralling. My friend from home, Tamara, who’d turned up to hold my hand and take the inevitable facebook pictures, told me to stop panicking. It would be fine. We’d find the money. But, after the ER doctor tried (and failed) to take the bullet out under local anaesthetic, it seemed I needed surgery to remove it. The police wanted the pellet for evidence in their attempted murder investigation. Now, surgery costs thousands so I discharged myself, with my seeping wound stitched up and went home to phone my travel insurance company. It was, by now, 7am in the UK. The poor woman at the call centre near Manchester had just started her shift.

“Hi. This is Noam Friedlander. I’m in Los Angeles. I’ve just been shot. I need surgery. I’ve just checked myself out of the ER. They’ve already taken $1,000 off my credit card. Can you cover my costs?”

There was a pause from the call centre as she processed the information. She then proceeded to put me on hold. At least nothing’s changed back home.

I’ve since lost my appetite but am forcing myself to eat. If LA’s taught me anything, it’s that a slight spare tyre is obviously a life-saver. I’m never dieting again.

At present, the police are investigating the crime, they’re calling the incident ‘attempted murder’ and I’m still waiting to hear back from the police station, apparently it’s a busy precinct. It’s been a week and nothing from anyone. No phone calls. Updates. Nothing. The criminal justice system is nothing like Law & Order or the other crime procedural shows so heavily featured on TV. Jack Bauer can save the world in 24 hours, but a shooter can fire on civilians and nothing’s done about it.

As a result, I decided to launch my own investigation. I discovered that I’m the third person to be shot in the same location. The security guards won’t leave the guardhouse and locals in the know are too scared to walk along that stretch of pavement for fear of being turned into target practice. All this in an allegedly ‘safe area’.

Meanwhile, the health palavers continue. After a horribly hard-fought battle with international travel insurance and the US health system, I found a surgeon to operate on me and spent two hours under the knife while they removed the ‘foreign object’. I’m now refusing to walk anywhere, unless it’s a beach but I’m not ready to come home quite yet. I’ve got a criminal investigation to see through and surely someone to sue? After all, this is America. No doubt, my ‘sniper’ will turn out to be some spoiled teenager with too much time on his hands. So, I’m scanning YouTube to see if I’ve become a featured item. I’m in LA now. I can’t help but think of my onscreen cache. As yet, I’m nowhere to be seen. It’s surely only a matter of time.

The one where I drive to Zuma and back and Zuma again

I’m due at Mr X’s at 9.30am. So. At 8.30am I’m up. I’ve got my packed suitcases and head off to Mr X’s. Tired. Oh. So. Tired. I get to Zuma. His daughter's there. She's very sweet. Very friendly. Very loving. Not a brat, which is refreshing and terrifically bright. I like her. She's watching TV and there's no sign of Mr X. The buff mate's there but... where's Mr X? It's the Hollywood culture - hurry up and wait. So I wait. he appears at nearly 11am.

He’s as nice as pie. He doesn’t even mention the BMW. The BMW I'd lost sleep over that night as I was in total fear that I'd done something wrong again. Anway, I take him through the car. Show him how to use it. We go through all the other stuff. Busy busy busy. I’m out of there by 1.30pm. Finally. We’ve talked about charity work, we’ve talked about his upcoming schedule, play tickets… all that jazz. I think it's all sorted out. Good. Few. It is the weekend after all...

And... I've got my suitcases in my car. I go off to look at an apartment in Hollywood. It smelled of wee. And overlooked a police station. Aargh. But then... a text from Roof. His flat's going to be empty in December so I can flat sit! Yay! Result! Quite what I'm going to do in a three-bedroom three bathroom apartment I don't know but I'm so excited!

The following morning, we're all meeting at Sacha's house and arrange to have lunch at the Chateau with Roof, Nico, Nina and friends. I'm so excited I end up locking my keys in my car - WITH THE ENGINE RUNNING. What an idiot. My cell doesn't work so I can't let anyone know that I'm going to be late. I'm freaking out. Thank god for Nico and triple AAA.

Lunch was nice and then I got to see my school friend Dan. And his newborn son Henry. And his fiancee Krystyna. Yay! Friends from home. Back to Nico's and while reversing out of his drive on Mulholland I manage to scrape the entire side of the car by reversing into a pole. Jesus.

Then... it's my driving test following a two-hour driving lesson with some freak who decided to tell me about all the famous people he'd taught... I say famous. They were usually the second assistant to x. Or the third assistant to y. He's probably going to tell people he had that Mr X's assistant in his car last week. Anyway. No matter. I passed first time. Yay! I have been driving about 18 years so really... but it's different here. It's the other side of the road for starters. Wrong.

And then... Emails from Mr X from 7pm onwards. He’s not happy. There's some stuff going down. It's not that he's not happy with me, I think, just that other people have been stupid and... well... now I know I’ve got a horrid day tomorrow.

5.45am. Wake up. Try to call Mr X. He's got a conference call at 6am. No signal. Send email. Call from landline. Someone from CAA fucked up. No signal. Arrgh. He has a conference call at 6am. Where is the call? Where is the access code? What's going on? Nooooooooo.

Mr X's sending emails and going crazy. This is not good. Not good at all. Eventually he gets through. Then I go back to sleep. Up again at 8.15am. Head for Moorpark. 10am off to Zuma. I have to pick up a video that Mr X wants to get to the casting office by lunch time. He tells me this at 9.45am. Great. He's screaming at me. I'm driving in the rain. It's really dark. And a bit scary. LA in the rain is hard work. People are lunatics because they're just not used to it. Rain that is. I'm doing my best but it's really difficult and Mr X's shouting down the phone about where I’m meant to be and all the rest of it. But? What's this? I'm stuck in full-on traffic. Full on. PCH. What do you expect?

On the plus side, Mr B phones about a celebration dinner surprise for his wife Ms J. And … shooting on Friday. Yay! I'm going to a shooting range! I've always wanted to indulge my inner Charlie's Angel.

I get another call... Tamara and Gina waiting for the tape. Racing back as best I can. Woosh. I race into the casting office. It's 12.30pm. Bam. I'm good. But then... Of course. I'd forgotten. Mr X's still in NYC and Tamara and I are due to spend the weekend at his house in Zuma so... guess what? I end up driving all the way back to Zuma again. It takes FOREVER! Still, it's nice that he trusts me and is letting us stay there for the weekend. I can't wait to have a break. I'm exhausted all the time and Tam's not had a break either. We get to pretend that we really live the life and chill at a house in Malibu. Bliss. We can't wait. I'm really grateful to Mr X...

I go to Ralph’s at the Malibu colony. Then.. the house. Tam passes out early. She was making out all night before. At 11pm I’m in bed too. Shattered. Shattered. That was over 150 miles in one day just going back and forth doing nowt. That's the LA way. Hurry up. And wait. Hurry up. And wait...

The one where a girl does a Masonic dance in Tam's hot tub

10am. I’m due in Santa Monica. I race down the freeway. I was hoping to meet a friend for lunch but, surprise surprise, he doesn’t pick up the phone. So… I walked on the beach alone and contemplated HOW LUCKY I AM to be here in LA and enjoying relaxing on the beach. I stepped into the sea. Oooh, look at me, I’m so free, I’m walking in the sea. Woo. I got bored. It took me ten minutes. My head was racing. Shouldn’t I be doing something else, shouldn’t I be writing? Shouldn’t I be DOING SOMETHING? I’m not too good at this downtime thing. Never have been. My head just can’t relax. I think I’m going to learn meditation or something because this is meant to be my break and I’m going ‘where to next, what can I do, why am I on my own on the beach….’ Calm down love.

Tamara rings. Her friend Rick is coming to her BBQ party tonight and needs picking up. So… back to the Four Seasons (Ben and Tamsin left this morning) and meet Rick. We’ve not met before but we have friends in common.

We drive over the hill for the half hour drive. His mother’s a QPR fan so I think he’s okay. Anyway, it’s a bonding trip and we chat away. We get to Tam’s. She’s got the nicest place – big pool, nice BBQ – it’s all amazing. Oh. And there's a hot tub. Really nice. I'm into the hot tub thing. Now that works for me.

One of Tam’s flat mates has got us all VIP passes to some concert at the Staples Centre. I’m tempted but… Rick’s in shorts, Tam’s in the hot tub, Gina can’t be bothered and I’m fine just where we are. Sweet boy though. Moved here from Amarillo, Texas. Got a dog. A small one. Called it Johnny Cash. Started walking it. Met people. And got a job as someone’s assistant (aka Bitch). He hated me calling it ‘bitch’. He kept going he’s my friend… he’s my friend. My point? He’s your boss and you’re his bitch… He’ll learn. Still, I’m impressed that Johnny Cash worked out for him.

By 9pm we’re all in the hot tub. Nice. Then… this girl. Ms J. Don’t know her. Don’t want to know her. She’s hammered. She hit that turning point. I want to thump her. Rick wants to thump her. Jeremy wants to bang her. And god knows what Jason thinks. She told us all about bonding with girls at her boarding school and did her Masonic dance she learned at school. It involved some dancing moves while waving her arms around. It was a bit scary. She'd had a few beers.... let's say... nevertheless... it wasn't what I really needed. Great dance though. I feel I learned a lot.

Following the dance, she then dived into the freezing main swimming pool and just lay in the cold water. Insane. It was cold watching her. Time to go. But it was all good fun. Rick and I make our escape. But now. I’m hungry. So we stopped off at Mel’s Diner for a late night munch.

Tam calls. Ms J’s boyfriend had turned up. Turns out I know exactly who he is and he deserves her. He was in the final series of Dream Team, the amazing Sky One TV show that I was employed on as a script writer. The only TV show I've been employed as a script writer on in fact. Indeed. Yes. I have given that man words. He has spoken my lines.

Oh and Ms J's costume. It was like a bad porn film job. White. With a black bit that you can remove, which she did. Always nice to see a girl’s nipples and bush on a first meeting. And she had the panda eyes where the make up had rubbed all over her face as she got crazier and crazier. I felt sorry for Tam, who had to eventually kick her out at 2am. Urgh.

Anyway, Rick and I are safe. We’re the other side of the hill. Away from the nonsense. I take Rick back to the Four Seasons and head on home.

The Following Day...
10am. I’m at Nico’s. He’s not up yet. WAKE UP. And, later, we go off to the Chateau for lunch with Roof, Patrick, Sacha and Andrew. A nice lunch. I like the Chateau – even though they fucked up my order. By now it was 2pm. People had things to do and, unlike last week, it looked like I wasn’t going to be spending the afternoon with Roof. Instead… I had a press junket to go to. Hopefully.... hopefully... Mr X won't ring so I can just sneak in this job. Fingers crossed.


By 3pm I’m ensconced at the Sofitel hotel interviewing the cast of My Name is Earl. So. Junkets. Noam + four foreign journalists sitting in a hotel room in LA. The ‘talent’ comes in with two publicists, at least – the more publicists the more important they are – and we ask questions. Ten minutes per member of the cast. . You fire questions at them and battle with the other journalists to get your moment in the spotlight. That’s how some people might work. Not me. Oh no.

First of all. Get to know the other journalists. They are your friends. Not your enemies. Find out what people need from the talent. We need to work our time. So. Maybe someone works for a magazine like Vogue. They might want to know their view on fashion or trends. Fuck it. Let ‘em go with it. It’s not like I need the interview. However, with the main talent, it’s harder. We all want a slice. Some people are working for TV mags while others need ‘lifestyle’ pieces so have to ask about babies, boyfriends/girlfriends, homelife and the usual stuff you read in a magazine.

Still, it's fun being in a hotel, watching the world go by from the Penthouse. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. Thank God Mr X’s in NYC, my blackberry hardly bleeped for at least seven hours.

Bleep. Spoke to soon. But it’s only a quick request to find out something to do in the morning. Bleep. Ended. Bed. Yay.